


Sanzaru

by TheSpaceCoyote



Series: Sanzaru [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Horror, Experimentation, Gore, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The time before when you weren't running was hell, that's why you're running in the first place, why would you been running away from it if it wasn't a fucking nightmare?" AU in which Dave and John are escaped experiments on the run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanzaru

**Author's Note:**

> An AU that's one part Runawaystuck and one part gratuitous angst/gore/sad fic about poor experimented-on babus. The violent parts aren't too bad, but they're there and it might not be for the overly squeamish.
> 
> Might be continued into a series, I'm not entirely sure yet. Other characters might appear if I decide to continue it, but for right now it's just Dave and John with a mention of Karkat. Enjoy!

The wings that they cruelly grafted to your back weigh you down and they _hurt_ , they hurt so very bad, but you're the only one capable of movement so you press onwards, John either clinging around your neck like a koala or gently cradled in your arms, blankly staring up at you as you beat your gnarled feet over the undergrowth.

 

Running, running. Always running. Well--not _always_ , but you hate thinking about the times where you weren't running. The time before when you weren't running was _hell_ , that's why you're running in the first place, why would you been running away from it if it _wasn't_ a fucking nightmare?

 

After a long, long while of fleeing your feet are finally too aching and bloody to continue so grudgingly you stop and kneel on the forest floor, seeking out a soft bed of leaves and loam to lay John down on. As you set him down John reaches out with a shaky hand and takes the front of your tattered and stained shirt, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

 

"Dave?"

 

John's eyes had long been blinded by chemicals, the irises now a milky blue, the whites red and scarred, and they make you sick to look at because you had seen what John had looked like before, when he was one of many scared lab rats, looking up at you with a hopeful stare, and _dear God_ just being reminded of that stare right now sends a jolt of nausea through your stomach.

 

You're his seeing eye crow-thing, he relies on you completely to be his sight, to guide him away from the pursuing facility dogs who occasionally catch onto the tell-tale tell stench of chemical antiseptics and blood and infection that still clings to both of your bodies. 

 

John's fingers were fortunately spared, the tendons not cut like the ones in his ankles, and you were grateful because John's fingers were all he had, all that kept him sane aside from your presence. John taps beats against the ground, against your chest, feigns playing an instrument he once knew, his fingers flying due to muscle memory alone. 

 

Sometimes when the pain of the decaying birdflesh transplanted onto your shoulders is too much and you caw out in pain, John is there behind you on his knees, massaging his fingers into your worn and sore muscles, pressing and stroking the molting, bloody feathers trailing between your shoulder blades. He is careful of the blackened flesh and plugs of pus around the stitches, his fingers soft and gentle as he works your tired body. And once your pain has been eased John gropes around until he finds your lap, your hands helping him ease his body down against you. You weave your hands through his hair and scratch lightly at his scalp until he nuzzles into your stomach. Often you wish that you could let him rest longer but then you hear the howl of the dogs and the cut of the helicopter and you have to scoop John up again despite his mewls of protest and fear, and you run another couple of hours until your legs shudder and collapse.  

 

Sometimes John's eyes burn with blood and tears and you have to either seek out a miraculous spring of fresh water or dig your nails into the ground until you can coax out a small puddle of moisture that you use to clean his face. Those are the only moments when you find yourself actually looking at John's eyes, as you wipe away the blood and residual dye that they used to try to change the color of the boy's irises. Violet hues are permanently marbled in the whites, and his corneas are mottled and cloudy and painful to see. 

 

You can't bear to think what they would have continued to do to John if the two of you hadn't gotten out.  

 

You knew someone while you were in the facility, a boy with thick dermal implants grafted where his ears used to be, a boy whose skin had been blotched grey due to numerous failed attempts to change his pigmentation. He was the one who had helped you two escape in the first place, his plan largely fueled by the experimental doses of adrenaline that they had constantly pumped into his veins. The three of you had planned to escape together, but in the end he hadn't made it. You weren't sure at this point if he was alive or dead, and frankly you had little time to dwell on the matter because John was your priority at the moment. 

 

Sometimes you wish the facility hadn't cut out your tongue so you could actually _speak_ to John, to soothe him and tell him that everything will be okay even through the nightmares, but often you settle for the low warbling you can managed out of your throat that almost resembles a birdsong. 

 

On the occasional calm nights you lie with John, keeping his head in your lap and listening to his slow, constant breathing, and even though your wings are rotting and useless they are still warm, and you're thankful for them in these moments when you can cover up John and shield him from the elements. The circle of treetops above your head open up into the vault of the night sky and the pinpricks of the stars, and you desperately wish that John could see what you could, you wish that you could strip his eyes of the awful burn scars that the white-coated butchers had inflicted upon him. You wish that soon all the running, all the blood and the torn soles of your feet and the heavy weight of your wings will finally pay off when you find someone who wants to _help_ you, who wants to help John and help both of you recover. You hope you will find somehow who will help John see the stars. 


End file.
